The Consulting Detective and the Pathologist
by musicality7437
Summary: In the years after the Reichenbach Fall, a tall, dark-haired consulting detective makes someone coffee, and a mousy, brown-haired pathologist enjoys Disney movies. Sometimes, when words fail, actions are the only hope. Shameless Sherlolly, ranging from angst to fluff.


The unspoken words between them meant the most. She was his pathologist, and he was her consulting detective, and there was never anyone else. There never had been, and never would be.

When he breezed into her lab, muttering about tests and samples and results at rapid-fire speed, she didn't mind. She helped him, always. Even when he insulted her, made her feel awful, said the most horrible things - she could see from the look on his face a second later that he had meant to say something different, but it had come out all wrong.

Because, brilliant as he was, Sherlock Holmes could be spectacularly ignorant about the funniest things.

She saw right through him - past the eyes and the cheekbones, the mess of curls and the collar turned up against the wind, the ego and the genius - to the heart that he vehemently denied he had. To her, there was no other explanation for the fact that he had willingly jumped off a building and died to save his friends. Well, almost died. But the intent was there, and the caring, however much a disadvantage.

* * *

Brilliant as she was, Molly Hooper could be spectacularly ignorant about the funniest things.

She saw right through him - past the sociopathic façade that had become second nature - and knew that he was not okay. That he was sad when he thought no one could see. But what saddened him the most was the one thing she couldn't see. She thought she didn't count.

So the next time he saw her, he made sure she knew. In case it was his last chance to tell her.

She thought she didn't count, and it broke the heart he didn't know he had.

* * *

When he told her she did count, she was surprised to find she already knew. And it was because she counted that he had let her see him sad, vulnerable, afraid. Alone. But he wasn't alone. He would never be alone, not as long as he was solving crimes and she was cutting up dead bodies.

Hiding him in her flat for three years was the most difficult thing she had ever done. But she managed. When he disappeared for a week, two weeks, even two months, she trusted him. She ignored the worry that was eating her from the inside out because he was Sherlock Holmes, and he would always return.

When he came back bruised and bloodied (but quite pleased that he had made progress in dismantling Moriarty's criminal empire) at two o'clock in the morning, she didn't ask. She fixed him up and made him eat and ensured that there were freshly-washed sheets in the spare bedroom.

He never said "thank you" - at least, not in the usual way. But she could see it in his smile, and in his eyes. And when he was better, he would don some sort of ridiculous disguise (they both had a good laugh over this) and take her to Angelo's. Then, suddenly, he would disappear again. But she was always ready for when he came back, because she knew he would.

She believed in Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

No one could accuse Sherlock Holmes of being sentimental. Nonetheless, when Molly found out he hadn't seen The Little Mermaid and insisted he watch it, he gave in. To stop her from bothering him. And maybe, just maybe, a little bit to make her happy.

The movie was completely illogical. Why would anyone sell their voice to an insane sea witch just to grow legs so they could stalk the supposed love of their life? How would the silly girl even be able to tell him she loved him without a voice? Clearly, the ginger mermaid hadn't thought that through. Which brought him round to the question of whether or not mermaids actually existed. Obviously, they did not. It was scientifically impossible, not to mention that he'd already done some preliminary experiments on goldfish, though nothing too unethical -

Molly had fallen asleep. And her head was resting on his shoulder.

On screen, the human-sea witch that bore a striking resemblance to Irene Adler attempted to seduce the hapless prince while ginger girl desperately tried to come up with a plan on the fly with the help of a Jamaican crab.

But Sherlock wasn't paying attention anymore. He found he rather liked the feeling of Molly's head on his shoulder. And suddenly he noticed that her hair was undeniably red. He had never seen it before because he had never gotten this close.

No one could accuse Sherlock Holmes of being sentimental, especially not when he turned off the movie and picked up the sleeping pathologist from the couch. He was certainly not being sentimental when he carried her down the hall to her bedroom, where he laid her carefully on the bed and covered her with a blanket so she wouldn't get cold.

Even the fleeting moment when his lips were pressed to her forehead, or the strand of hair brushed gently from her face, didn't provide enough evidence to convict.

No, nobody could ever accuse Sherlock Holmes of being sentimental.

When Molly Hooper woke up the next morning, she had a sneaking suspicion about how she had made it to her bed last night, since the last thing she remembered was a crazy human-sea witch in a wedding gown. Viewed from her couch.

He didn't mention the night before while she made breakfast, just something quick about "Completely illogical" and "Mermaids are a distinct genetic impossibility."

And she didn't ask. She didn't have to. She could see it in his eyes, and that was enough for her.

* * *

When he formally returned to the living world after the Fall, she didn't see him for a month. So she carried on, as always, cutting up bodies and filing paperwork and living and breathing. He had always claimed that breathing was boring, and for once she agreed with him. But then one day, the doors to the morgue flew open and Hurricane Sherlock entered in a whirlwind of black curls and pale skin and coat. She couldn't help but sigh with relief, because she'd thought she'd lost him.

He was Sherlock Holmes, and he picked up on it, eyes narrowing. Then she heard four words she never thought he would say. "I made you coffee."

The coffee was delicious - it had to be expensive, his own blend, not just the cafeteria sludge she normally drank. One cream and one sugar, and she was touched that he had noticed her coffee preferences. But then he was Sherlock Holmes, and he noticed everything. What mattered was that he hadn't deleted it.

He raised an eyebrow after her first sip and she gave him a winning smile, and then he was gone, the hint of a satisfied smirk on his face. And that was it. Because actions meant much more than words to both of them.

* * *

Their relationship was anything but ordinary. It wasn't even strictly official. He never referred to her as his "girlfriend," and vice versa. They never held hands or kissed or gazed dreamily into each other's eyes in public, which made it unbearably awkward to double-date with John and Mary. But, like always, it was the little things - the brush of fingertips across a shoulder, a hand squeezed reassuringly beneath the table, a fleeting glance between them that spoke volumes.

Their first date wasn't a date, per se. Sherlock needed to stakeout Angelo's for a case, and it would be suspicious if he sat at a table alone for hours. So the logical thing to do was to ask Molly to go with him.

**Angelo's, 8:00 - SH**

**Not even a question anymore? Manners, Sherlock. - MH**

**A question is unnecessary if I already know your answer. - SH**

***sigh* All right. If I must. - MH**

Dinner at Angelo's with Molly was surprisingly enjoyable. She had good taste in wine and was an excellent conversationalist. That was saying something, because there were few people who could carry on an intellectual conversation with Sherlock Holmes. Of course, it was strictly on case business.

But a tiny part of him wouldn't mind doing it again. Even if it was only to thank her for saving him after his death.

* * *

The night he asked her to marry him, they had gone to Angelo's on a date. Technically, it was a crime-solving, baddie-busting date, but still, a date was a date. That went without saying for both of them.

She was just browsing the drinks menu, looking for something daring to try, when he pulled a ring casually from his pocket at twirled it jauntily around his forefinger once, one eyebrow raised quizzically, the hint of a smirk playing across his lips.

Her knowing smile was the only permission he needed to slide the ring on to the fourth finger of her left hand.

It was only later, when she slipped the ring off her finger to fully admire it, that she noticed the inscription engraved on the inside of the band:

_**You do count. - SH**_


End file.
